


Mistakes We Never Made (Until Today)

by Zaxal



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Handcuffs, M/M, Mentions of Canon Relationships, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things pick up from where they started. His marriage is on its last legs, and Shawn Spencer comes waltzing back into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistakes We Never Made (Until Today)

He spots him first in the middle of a crowd, a fleeting face, a memory that he blinks away almost instantly. He pauses, stiffens, feels a sharp intake of shallow breath punching his lungs, but in an instant it's all gone. "Carlton?" Marlowe asks, leaning into him, and he drags his eyes reluctantly away to their walk along the pier, to the sun setting over the far horizon, to Lilly bouncing several steps in front of them, straining against the hold of her mother's hand to try and get to a dog on a leash nearby.

"It's nothing," he says, lies, resists the urge to scan the crowd again, like if he tries harder he can defeat the realizations that yawn wider in the quiet moments. Their honeymoon phase is over, and what they're left with is him, broken as he is, and her, always trying to mend what's shattered beyond repair.

Even if it was him, it doesn't matter. Shawn Spencer moved away four years ago. Carlton hasn't spoken to him in at least two.

Something in him aches as the reminder that no matter how long they have, things never change. The only difference is that this time, he had a child.

Wonderful wife, bright, happy child, his dream job, and yet he still goes home to an empty apartment, lives alone. It really is haunted, he supposes, but by the soul of a restless public servant, doomed to roam the earth, forever aware of the fucked-up things inside him, the way that no matter how hard he tries, how much he loves, it's never enough to fix him. It's never enough.

He walks with them to what he still thinks of as Henry's house, and he leans down to rub his nose against Lilly's, to hear her giggle and feel her when she throws her arms around his neck. As far as she knows, he's away because of work.

It's not a lie, not really.

Work is the only thing that hasn't left him.

\-----

He rubs the bridge of his nose, watching the scene in front of him and doing his best to turn off the nagging feeling that he's missing something, that he always misses something. It's as much a performance as it is serious police work. He's the Chief – he has to be seen, has to be available, has to be willing to speak to the crowd that's gathered at the edge of the police tape to watch like this is some reality television show and not a hostage situation.

It feels too eerily familiar with SWAT taking things out of his hands, but this is out of his control. Most things are. He tries not to think about it and fails, forced to cross his arms and observe until called over to address the current situation with the pack of hyenas on the sidelines who refuse to disperse no matter how many times he tells them to.

"Freedom of assembly," a voice drawls from the back when he reminds them _again_ that they have no place being here. "We're not interfering, so you can't technically tell us to leave."

The speaker breaks away from the group, and Carlton grits his teeth to ignore the rage that flares at the dismissal from the person who has no right coming back into his life.

\-----

 _Are you here?_ He demands over text, unable to keep himself from selecting the number that he never had the guts to delete.

_new phone, who dis? ;D_

Carlton grimaces. Goes for the throat rather than dancing around, playing this stupid game: _I'm assuming the engagement is off, given that you missed your own wedding._

Silence. Maybe it's someone else with his old number, maybe it's lingering guilt sinking in. He puts his phone on vibrate and goes to bed.

\-----

There's a text waiting for him in the morning. _bringing up peoples exes smh. did you forget how to be a person w/o us there to yank on your leash?_

It stings, but that was the intent. _I learned to stop taking other peoples bullshit._

 _blatantly untrue_ , Shawn replies quickly. _you let the swat guys walk all over you yesterday._

_It's called cooperation._

_it never was when i was around. funny how that works._

_Why are you here?_

_lmao do you actually care lassie???_

Carlton frowns. _That depends. Are you going to leave me alone?_

_you texted me not the other way around._

_You followed me._

_i had to see if you still had a stick up your ass. turns out you were able to go up a size! grats dude i know how hard you worked for that._

_Grow up._

_no._

Carlton waits an obnoxiously long time for clarification. For Shawn to insult him, for Shawn to continue being the jackass Carlton always knew he was. It doesn't come.

He has work to do, so he tucks his phone away and ignores it. Not that it buzzes again. Not that he wants it to.

\-----

He debates on telling Juliet that he's back in the state, but decides not to. It won't last long, whatever it is, and there's nothing that can be gained from doing it. Shawn broke her heart once already – Carlton's not going to open up the opportunity for him to do it again.

\-----

The thing inside him claws at his skin, the feeling of wrongness, of self loathing rising like bile in his throat. He doesn't drink to dull it – he's rarely ever been that weak willed. But it does incapacitate him, leave him shuddering on his old mattress that never got thrown out, the bedframe that he'd delayed getting rid of like he knew this would happen. His head is buried in his hands until the exhaustion that follows finally saps the rest of his frantic energy.

He doesn't remember sending the text, but he does, half-awake and desperate to get away from the darkness that's settled in his bones. _Still in town?_

\-----

Shawn's response comes days later, pings onto his phone as he's getting out of his car outside the station. It's a picture of his own office, undoubtedly taken from the chair at his desk. In the darkened computer monitor, he can see some of Shawn's face, that lopsided grin.

Carlton doesn't run into the station, but he does walk quite briskly.

"Chief," McNab's unquenchable enthusiasm hits him before he sees the slotted blinds, the way Shawn's hiding even if it's in plain sight. "I told them to let him in. I know he's not officially a consultant anymore, but I thought-"

Carlton shrugs past him and walks, each step deliberate and heavy, the fury making his body warm, the urge to go for his gun undeniable as he twists the knob and opens the darkened room, light spilling in around his silhouette lengthened on the floor.

"Lassie," Shawn says with his stupid smug grin, with his eyes crinkling at the corners, like he hasn't been gone, like he still hasn't learned. "Miss me?"

Carlton slams the door behind him, the blinds clattering against the glass. "Get out," he practically snarls, "of my station."

"Is that an order, Chief?" He tilts his head to the side, grin falling to a smirk, challenging. "I didn't figure you'd come to me, so I had to come find you."

"I'm living in your old house," Carlton reminds him.

Shawn doesn't respond immediately, pressing his lips together before declaring airily, "Your wife and kid are. You're a little more out of the way." He pushes himself back from the desk, rolling in the chair until he can push himself to his feet, temporary ID badge swinging from his hip as he peers idly at the things atop Carlton's filing cabinets, avoids him even when he came here to confront. "You haven't told Jules."

"The last thing she needs is you blowing back through her life." Adds, spitefully, "Just like her father."

Shawn huffs out a soft laugh, nothing like hurt in his expression. "You like that video I left you?" he asks, seeming to derail even though they both know he really isn't.

"I snapped it in half."

"Before or after I ran away?" Shawn prompts, eyes cutting to him, keenly observing.

He doesn't owe Shawn any of this – Shawn doesn't deserve to have his overblown ego stroked more than it is already. "Before or after your marriage started losing the fire?" Shawn's mouth ticks up, smirk widening as Carlton's face flushes with rage, with hurt, with the way Shawn so easily makes the floor fall out from under his feet.

"Why did you come back?" he demands, circling closer, hands curled into fists and serious thoughts of hitting Shawn bubbling in the back of his head.

Shawn squares his shoulders and meets his eyes, defiantly staring him down, heedless of the way Carlton glares at him, the way heat shudders through every fiber of his being.

"You don't care," Shawn observes because that's all it ever was, all it ever could have been. "So I'll spare you."

"You're right – I just want you gone."

"Do you," he says in a way that doesn't sound at all like a question. "You never were good at lying. We all know that, Lass. Me, you, and Mar-"

That's when he hits him, when he can't stand it, when the need for it overwhelms his constant attempts at repression, restraint. Shawn's lip splits beneath his fist, leaves a small trail of blood smeared over it, over Carlton's knuckles.

Shawn recoils, and his smile falls away, but he doesn't move, doesn't run, doesn't hide himself away. Just slowly turns his eyes up to him, something cold in them, calculating, like he meant for that to happen, like he needed it as much as Carlton did.

His tongue peeks out for a moment, flickers over the cut, wiping the blood away.

"Get out," he says needlessly when Shawn's already heading for the door. His hand hurts when he flexes it, so he does it again, again, again, until he has it memorized.

\-----

There's a knock at his apartment door before the day's over, when he's laying alone in his bed, still dressed. His thrift-store dresser's doors hanging half open, clothes spilling out the top. He takes the time to tidy that small mess up before he walks across the empty expanse of his living area, opens the door sans any real defense.

Without missing a beat, Shawn says, "Wow, love what you've done with the place."

It's empty, some boxes shoved to the far corners, things he took from his own house once Lilly was asleep but never got around to putting up again. His life is packed away, shoved against the wall, gathering dust.

His sense of shame is all but completely absent.

"What do you want?" he demands as if he doesn't know, as if he's not looking at the cut on Shawn's lip.

"Just thought I'd come by. Maybe ask how long it's been since you worked some of that tension out."

"Most of it wasn't here until you showed back up."

"Lying to me, Lassie?" Shawn raises his eyebrows, "After I came all this way just to say hi?"

The heat crawls up his spine again, and his hand lashes out, fingers curling in the flesh between Shawn's neck and shoulder like he can feel the well-worn grooves of the past. He pulls him away, kicks the door shut, then slams him against it. A growl forms in his chest, guttural. Shawn's hand comes up, grabs the knot of his tie and pulls him close, lips tauntingly brushing over his own. "At least I had the decency to leave."

It's almost enough to make him push away, but it's just as satisfying as the punch earlier, hurting over and over again until he can memorize the pain, add it to the rest of him that hurts with the constant reminder that he's never been good enough.

He braces his other hand on the door, and that's when he catches sight of the golden band on his finger, and it all crashes into him again. Shawn notices his attention wandering and yanks the tie like it's a leash, until Carlton has to use both hands to keep from crashing into him. "Keep it on," Shawn orders.

"Fuck you."

"Keep it on, or I leave."

Carlton swallows thickly, feeling the heat flushing his face. "Why? You get off on it, Spencer? On ruining peoples' marriages because you couldn't go through with your own?"

Shawn laughs, insincere and cruel. "No. I just want you to remember that you're no better than me."

The shame buries in him like a knife, twisting with brutal efficiency, but Shawn isn't relenting, keeps pulling the tie tighter until Carlton can feel himself gulping, swallowing for air, helpless except in every way that he isn't, every way he could stop this and try harder, every moment of his life he could sacrifice only to remain the way he is. To stay broken and hurting himself and hurting everyone else he loves except Shawn who has never loved anyone except himself.

He hears his cuffs clink as Shawn brings his other hand up, claps the metal around his wrist and fastens it brutally tight. He releases his tie to cuff the other hand, and Carlton lets it happen, doesn't fight, doesn't assert himself, doesn't stop this even when it means letting the jackass in front of him see him vulnerable and weak.

It's not like Shawn doesn't already know, like he didn't profit off of it for years.

Shawn reaches up with his hands, smoothing them up his shoulders, and Carlton drops like a rock to his knees, letting them thunk on the hardwood floor, letting the hurt burn through his thighs.

Doesn't have the guts to glare up at him, not when he needs this, when he needs to hurt, to suffer, to pay. He can't risk having Shawn turn around and walk back out the door.

Shawn's fingers bury in his hair, twisting until he's forced to raise his head, to look him in the eye, unable to hide himself away. He waits for mockery, for condemnation, for the hated chemistry of his own shame and arousal, but it doesn't come. Instead, Shawn watches him, gaze steady, reading him like he's a favorite, open book. Carlton sneers but doesn't move.

Shawn yanks him back further, testing his threshold, and he doesn't fight it. Goes as he's led, submitting, hating himself for it, and like Shawn can see it, he releases him, allowing him to glare at the floor. 

He can practically feel Shawn's gaze crawling over him, dissecting him, prying into the depths that he'd rather never acknowledge. Shawn steps closer, the heat off his body inviting, promising. Telling him lies he wants to hear, that he wants to believe. He sneers in disgust at himself, at Shawn for continuing to take advantage of his damnable weaknesses, at the farce his life has become and how he needs this one thing to prove that he's an irrevocable, inexcusable fuck-up.

Shawn doesn't even ask for it, doesn't say a word, lets him turn his head and press his face against the inseam of another man's jeans, his cuffed hands bracing on the floor, giving him balance, making him feel the ring as his fingers gnarl against the wood.

"Yeah?" Shawn asks, voice husky and quiet as his fingers comb through Carlton's hair, not tugging or pulling or leading but grounding both of them in this moment, and yeah. Yeah. Carlton makes a pathetic, needy noise. It claws its way up his throat, demanding, and Shawn's not even hard yet. Probably didn't even come here to do this, and here they are anyway, Carlton crowding him against the door, mouth open against the length in his jeans, stimulating until it fattens under his lips.

"Shit, Lassie-" His hands fumble with his belt, with his fly, and the moment he pushes everything down over his hips, and his cock jumps up, Carlton's mouth is on it, moving desperately, tongue flicking over the smooth head and tasting him. It's not enough, so he swallows him down, brings his hands up to grab Shawn's thighs, pull him closer, in, as if it means he can shove more past his gag reflex, as if this alone will be enough to fix everything that's wrong with him, like he's not shattering still.

Shawn's head falls back and thunks against the door, a moan tearing from his mouth before his hands are scrambling, combing into his hair, reaching down to grab his ears and Carlton growls around him, taking it, letting Shawn fuck his throat. It's been years since he's done this with another man and even longer since he let it be fueled by anger, all of his energy focusing into this moment, into the desperate movements and the salt and sweat and how he needs more.

Like this will fix everything. Like it will fix anything. Like it matters at all, like Shawn's not going to turn around and leave the moment he can, and he'll be in this miserable hellhole he's made of his life, alone again.

Shawn's going to have bruises in the shapes of his fingertips, and he doesn't care, hauls him closer, swallowing until he feels like he can't breathe, until he's going lightheaded and it's _so good_ not having to think, not being able to think, the damned hated voice of reason lost to the sounds of skin slicking over skin, the weight and heat of Shawn's cock in his mouth, the overwhelming desire to make him come, to do one thing right even if it's just this.

There's another shuddering moan, Shawn's hips bucking, and Carlton takes it, presses him back against the door and swallows like he'll die if he can't take every throbbing inch of him. He's panting for breath, barely catching it before he dives again, takes him as deep as he can manage until his lungs burn and he can feel the blood rushing to his face.

The hands that had pulled him close suddenly push him away, and Carlton's so angry that he would dare to – that he would even _think_ of – stopping him before they've both gotten what they need from this, before he's done breaking apart when Shawn had the luxury of never being put together in the first place.

Shawn drops to his knees, and before Carlton asks what the hell he thinks he's doing, there are lips pressed against his own, fingers raking into his hair to pull him close and it's _this_ that's wrong, that's unacceptable, that's the final straw, and yet he angles his own head, opens his mouth to Shawn's seeking tongue, kisses him with his hands curled in futile fists on Shawn's chest, the chain between them taut.

Shawn's teeth grab his lower lip, sucking on it, pulling him closer, and he's breathing words in-between points of heated contact, profanities and that stupid nickname that left Santa Barbara when he did, when they all did, and it shouldn't hurt because he was supposed to be happy. It was supposed to be-

Goddamnit.

"Hate you," he manages to grit out, and Shawn kisses it away, swallows it down like he doesn't care or like he does, too much, just like him, and he has to remember all of his failures, all the ways he's fucked up, all the ways he doesn't deserve anything.

Swipes his tongue over the cut from earlier, hands fisting in Shawn's shirt to haul him closer, until their bodies fit together, until there's barely a breath of air between them, and Shawn's rutting forward, spit and precome smearing all over Carlton's slacks, and he rolls his own hips forward, hating how good it feels, hating himself for wanting more.

"Missed you," Shawn breathlessly returns, and that makes the fire inside him rage even higher.

Before he knows it, he's twisted, thrown Shawn on the ground and crawled over his prone form, hands fumbling with his belt, his fly, pulling out his cock so he can align it with Shawn's, so he can move his hips against Shawn's mercilessly, eyes hungrily raking over him, taking in every shudder, every jerk, every way his body writhes for more.

"Yeah, yeah, fuck, Lassie, like that, come on."

He can't stop himself, can't stop the anger and need that snarls beneath his skin. He's making every greedy movement he can, desperation driving him, and Shawn could just lie there and take it, but he doesn't. One hand reaches between them, and, with a little fumbling, strokes them both together, Carlton's movements driving them both higher, faster, and it's so tempting to fucking strangle him with the chain on the handcuffs or kiss him until neither of them can breathe, and he's coming so hard his vision goes fuzzy, eyes slamming shut, and he can feel Shawn's dick jump against his own, following his lead not long after.

There's silence beneath the thundering beat of his own heart, beneath the ragged breaths that both of them are taking. He reaches between them, slowly, to tuck his dick away and zip himself up. He intends to rock back on his feet and stand, go clean up, find the keys, but before he can do so much as scoot back, Shawn's sitting up, kissing him again.

Only, this time, there's no heat. No anger or desperation or years of pent-up lust that neither of them did anything about until this moment.

It's simple. It's... nice.

It's wrong.

But he kisses him back anyway.


End file.
